


Of Holiday Carols

by lazyisatalent



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, Piano, terrible holiday sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyisatalent/pseuds/lazyisatalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac is the king of holiday parties, and Enjolras likes to watch Grantaire play the piano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Holiday Carols

Courfeyrac is the king of holiday parties.  
  
Technically this one is hosted by Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet, but everyone knows that Courfeyrac is responsible for it. The only reason it’s here and not in Courf’s apartment is that Courf’s apartment is on the first floor; the trio rent the top floor of a two-family and their landlords let them do roof decorations.  
  
Which is why Courfeyrac has covered the roof in tinsel, of course.  
  
For a moment Enjolras hunkers down in the passenger seat of Combeferre’s car and seriously considers the merits of not going inside.  
  
Combeferre turns to him and gives him the _look._  
  
“If you don’t go in Courf will never forgive you,” Ferre says, “And if Courf never forgives you we’ll have to listen to his fits of dramatics until the actual end of time.”  
Enjolras groans.  
  
Combeferre turns the car off and they both get out, Enjolras stuffing his hands in his pockets as they go up the icy dirty walkway to the house. The railing of the stairs is also covered in tinsel, because _of course_ , and when the door opens Enjolras immediately sees Courfeyrac in the worst reindeer sweater Enjolras has ever seen in his entire life.  
  
Courf is busy talking to Jehan about menorahs, though, so Enjolras is not immediately harassed with an antler hat or a santa hat or a dreidel or whatever else Courf has collected.  
  
Yes, Courfeyrac is his friend and Enjolras loves him, but he can be fucking annoying about holiday parties.  
  
Enjolras gets a cup of eggnog and chats with Musichetta rather aimlessly for several minutes.  
  
“Call me crazy, but - is someone playing the piano?” he asks her after taking a sip. The eggnog has rum in it, but not much, and Enjolras isn’t driving. (They’ll probably all just crash here, if he’s honest.)  
  
Chetta laughs and glances in the doorway of the other room. “Yes,” she says, “The people who lived here before us left one, and none of us know how to play one, but we keep it anyways.”  
  
Enjolras smiles. “Use it for storage?”  
  
“Leave our laundry on the keyboard, when we’re not having company over,” Musichetta says, laughing lightly.  
  
“I want to check it out, if you don’t mind -”  
  
“Knock yourself out.”  
  
Enjolras is good at navigating a crowd. He steps around Combeferre, past Marius, narrowly dodges Feuilly’s house of cards, and enters the next room.  
  
It’s cozy, with a massive couch and an older TV and books and magazines scattered on the coffee table. Apart from the curly-haired figure slouched over the piano, eyes focused on the keys, it’s also entirely empty.  
  
Grantaire’s hair is messy, his sweatshirt is more than a little wrinkled and has glittery bits of tinsel clinging to it, and he has a half-empty bottle of wine sitting next to him on the piano bench. But he is also more mesmerized than Enjolras has ever seen him, and E cannot bring himself to say anything until the song is done.  
  
Grantaire looks up and pushes his hair away from his eyes with a lazy sweep of his hand. “Hey?” he says, clearly tipsy but still more sober than Enjolras had expected.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Enjolras replies. He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans for the sake of having something to do with them. “I didn’t know you could play the piano.”  
  
Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah,” he says impassively, “We have a plastic plugin keyboard thing at the apartment but it doesn’t sound nearly as good as this does.”  
  
Grantaire picks up the bottle, takes a sip, and leaves it on the lid of the piano. “You can sit on the bench, if you’re going to listen.”  
  
Enjolras sits down next to Grantaire with his glass of eggnog in hand. He watches as Grantaire sweeps through pictures of sheetmusic on his phone, finally settling on something and squinting at it as he starts to play.  
  
Enjolras is a bit skeptical about the choice - _Jaws_ , really? - but whatever. To each their own.  
  
And this is the first time Enjolras has seen Grantaire so keenly focused on _anything_. Maybe it’s just that he can’t play the piano casually while drunk, but there is something about the pseudo-drunk’s body that thrums with passion - he absorbs the music like all people who really love music do.  
  
And there’s paint on his fingernails. Enjolras has never noticed that before.  
  
Grantaire has started to play ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’ when Enjolras points it out.  
  
“There’s paint on your hands.”  
  
“Mm,” Grantaire replies, “That happens.”  
  
“You paint?”  
  
“No, this is just from a fairy making love to my hand,” Grantaire says, “Yeah, I paint. Really, you’d think that you never pay attention to anything I say.”  
  
“A lot of what you say is bullshit.”  
  
“And a lot of what you say is useless, but you don’t see me getting rude about it,” Grantaire says.  
  
Enjolras snorts. And wills himself, again, to avoid picking a fight. Courf would be upset with him, and Musichetta would give him the look, and Eponine may well punch him in the throat, because _it’s almost Christmas and Chanukah just happened and what the fuck is wrong with you, Enjolras_?  
  
They tend towards blaming him, because while Grantaire nudges him towards the edge, Enjolras cuts - he knows this about himself. He knows that he is able to find the worst thing he could say and then sometimes he just says it, because he is frustrated and angry and some people (this person especially) drive him crazy.  
  
Grantaire sweeps through more photos of sheet music and begins playing again. Enjolras wonders if he has hundreds of pages of music saved to his phone.  
  
“What’s this one?” E asks.  
  
“Kingdom Hearts,” Grantaire says with a twist of his lips, “What were you, deprived?”  
  
“I just haven’t played it in years,” Enjolras replies mildly.  
  
“That is a travesty,” Grantaire says, “I played it for seven hours when I was hungover last Saturday.”  
  
“I thought you were drunk last Saturday.”  
  
“I got up at four AM on accident. So the meeting was _basically_ Saturday two-point-oh.”  
  
“Hmm,” Enjolras says, “Your sleeping habits are astounding.”  
  
“So are _your_ joyless habits. I bet you haven’t even seen the new Zelda games.”  
  
Enjolras lets out a huff of laughter and takes one last sip of eggnog.  
  
“I never actually played Zelda,” he admits.  
  
“You horrify me.”  
  
“The feeling is mutual.”  
  
They look at each other for a few moments. Grantaire’s eyes are gray and captivating; they match his sweatshirt, though Enjolras very much doubts that that was intentional. He has spent enough time around Grantaire to know that the other man’s fashion sense is largely eclectic.  
  
He has spent more time around Grantaire, rather inadvertently, than he ever would have anticipated. Or wanted, at first.  
  
“You are aware,” E says, “That this is the longest real conversation we’ve ever had?”  
  
Grantaire snorts. “And we’ve covered so many topics, too!”  
  
“I wonder why that is.”  
  
“It’s because we’re not talking about your politics.”  
  
“Not politics,” Enjolras says, “Activism. There’s a difference.”  
  
“It’s _all politics_ , En-jol-ras. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”  
  
“Several people, actually,” Enjolras says. He knows senators, he is used to that mantra. “But it’s not the sort of politics you mean.”  
  
“Oh, pray tell, what _do_ I mean?”  
  
Enjolras scratches his chin. Grantaire is playing Let it Snow again, just by memory, no sheet music on his little screen.  
  
“Ulterior motives,” Enjolras says.  
  
“No,” Grantaire, “I did not actually mean anything in particular. Just politics. You don’t trust me very much, do you?”  
  
Enjolras shrugs. “Why should I?”  
  
Grantaire raises his eyebrows and stops playing. “I don’t know, because I’m not a terrible human being and you’ve known me for a while?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know what you meant.”  
  
“Really, R, it’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Sometimes you just need to shut up, okay? I know you didn’t mean to say it. I can tell when you’re trying to be an asshole. But please. Just. Stop talking.”  
  
Enjolras bites his tongue.  
  
Grantaire continues to play the piano. If it is possible to play Christmas carols resentfully, this is definitely what he is doing - Enjolras would be impressed, if it were not for the strong feelings of guilt swirling in his gut.  
  
He sits in silence for a few minutes, listens to the chorus of jingle bells, and then Grantaire stands up.  
  
And grabs his bottle of wine, and starts walking out.  
  
“Wait,” E says, standing up, “R, wait. I do trust you.”  
  
“I know,” Grantaire says, and then he walks out anyways.  
  
Enjolras stands next to the piano, and then leans against it, and very nearly considers rejoining the fray (maybe building houses of cards with Feuilly) when he hears: “Aww, R, are you leaving already?” come from the next room in what is unmistakably Cosette’s voice.  
  
Enjolras hurries into the main room. “Nah,” Grantaire says, “Just going for a walk.”  
  
Enjolras frowns as the front door swings shut and steps over Jehan - who has somehow started crocheting on the floor since the last time he was in here, what the actual fuck - and out the front door.  
  
“R!” he calls as the door slams shut behind him, “Grantaire, seriously, wait up!”  
  
Grantaire turns around. He is at the end of the walkway, and his hands are stuffed inside his pockets, and he squints up at Enjolras.  
  
Enjolras hurries down the steps.  
  
“What?” he says, “I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be back in twenty minutes. I just needed some - fresh air.”  
  
Enjolras frowns. “Just - just take my gloves, at least.”  
  
He yanks them out of his own pockets and presses them into Grantaire’s hands.  
  
“Please?” Enjolras adds.  
  
Grantaire looks down at the gloves, and then up at Enjolras. He tugs them on.  
  
“All right,” he says, “Um, thank you, Enjolras. I’ll - see you in a bit, yeah?”  
  
Enjolras nods. “See you in a bit.”  
  
Grantaire turns away, steps onto the sidewalk. “Merry Christmas, E.”  
  
Enjolras nods. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
He heads back up to the house.


End file.
